


The blight man was born for

by linman



Category: Oxford History Department - Connie Willis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linman/pseuds/linman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colin's almost completed his assignment.  Set during the end sequence of <i>All Clear</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The blight man was born for

The light faded, leaving the height and space of St. Paul’s in deepening shadow. Colin took off his ARP helmet and glanced around. To this point he had scarcely allowed himself a moment to imbibe the reality of being in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in any of the times he had visited it: it had been merely the stage for the mundane movements of the contemps and his own urgent searches. Now, in the gathering twilight, he could see the dust of significance everywhere. Bomb damage lay before him: the chill of the air surrounded him. He was here. Finally.

He heard movements, and was briefly tempted to duck away out of sight, but in the end merely stood watching as an old man came in, walking slowly with shoulders bent. He was briefly obscured by dim structures, his footsteps both sharp and undeliberate, and then emerged into full view. Colin got ready to speak when the man’s gaze fell on him, but he was looking upward into the majestic spaces over the rims of his glasses. The man took his hat off with a gesture that had a ghost of swift vigor: and suddenly the whole compass of the world turned.

It was Mr. Dunworthy. Colin hadn’t seen him in such terrible shape for a long, long time; and he had never seen him quite like this. Maybe—maybe he was too late.

He must have made some sound, because Dunworthy looked at him. His blank, lightless eyes saw only a man dressed as an ARP warden. Colin forced his voice to work.

“Mr. Dunworthy, I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Dunworthy’s face changed, as if struck. Then he went white. “Colin,” he said softly. “Colin?” And his gaze dissolved as he swooned heavily to the floor, his hat rolling away and the echoes of his fall full of cracks in the cathedral’s silence, as if things were breaking.

“Mr. Dunworthy!” Colin clapped his helmet to his head and launched himself forward, and the toe of his boot found a chunk of rubble, and he pitched headlong into the morass of bomb damage. Flailing desperately, he skidded on his side through a pile of broken boards and teetered with one leg hanging over the crater. Dust rose and then settled, as he gripped the floor through the coating of plaster dust and willed himself not to go over. When he knew that his center of balance was stable, he turned his head to look at Dunworthy.

He had recovered from his swoon and rolled to one side, curling upward to raise himself on an elbow. He was glaring at Colin.

“For heaven’s sake, Colin,” he said irritably, “don’t kill yourself. That’s all we need.”

Colin grinned. “Not going to happen,” he said, inching back from the precipice and getting up by slow degrees to his feet. “I know I made it.”

In the dim light he could see Dunworthy appraising him, which was as reassuring as it was perennially unnerving. Colin looked about him, picking out the best place to cross the rubble. When he found it, he applied himself with steady, deliberate movements to get over and around the piled debris, the same steady deliberation he had developed in the years of his search. It took a few minutes to clear the distance, but even so he had reached Dunworthy before he was up. He gripped him by the elbows and raised him, heavy and weak, to his feet; Dunworthy clung to him, and even when he was standing neither of them let go. For a moment in the chilled silence they stood without speaking, Colin holding Dunworthy while he shivered.

Dunworthy looked up at him; looked up at him. Colin was the taller man now. “Are you all right?” Colin asked him, looking anxiously into his face. “I was told you were injured; but you look ill.”

“I was both,” Dunworthy said. “But it’s all right.”

But Dunworthy didn’t look all right. He was reading Colin’s face as if it were a historical record full of grim news.

“I’m not too late, am I?” Colin said. “Polly and Eileen—”

“No,” Dunworthy said. “You’re not too late. I’ll take you to them.”

“I should send you through to Oxford. I can—”

“No, I’ll go with you. I know the way.”

“To the Regent? I’m sure I could—”

Dunworthy had turned as if to begin leading him, but at this he stopped and looked at him shrewdly. “You know all about it. Then you must know….”

“Everything except what you know,” Colin said. “I’ll go with you, and you can tell me.”

“Very well. And you can tell me how you did it.”

Colin reached for him. “If you take my arm,” he said, “you can guide me more easily.” It had the advantage of being true as well as diplomatic; Dunworthy gave him a thoughtful look, but acquiesced and slipped his hand into the strong crook of Colin’s arm. Shoulder to shoulder, the two men returned up the long shadows of St. Paul’s.

They had nearly reached the door when Dunworthy looked at him over his glass-rims. “I suppose,” he said, “that you didn’t listen to me and wait to go on assignment.” In the half-light Colin could see the faintest kindling of humor in his eyes; and it drew a smile from him that was not a grin.

“It’s time you realized,” Colin said. “You are my assignment.”

He pushed open the door, and the battered glory of England’s finest hour lay before them.


End file.
